The devil has no fur
Nor horns
It is gnawed and emasculated,
Glistening stitches
Tucking everything away
He is a breath held to the
Point of agony
He speaks of the micro
Small, bitter worms falling
From his thin lips
Sexless, cold and wet,
He keeps the receipts
And denies the refund
People ask for
Without explanation,
All the pieces you gave,
Kept away and the phantom
Pain stays with you,
The devil is not a man
Or a woman,
Which, as he stands there,
Smiling with exquisite agonies,
Makes him
So
Much
Worse
MB Blissett 